With Love
by Becky215
Summary: Margaret writes to her cousin in the early days of her marriage to John Thornton.


_Disclaimer_: No copyright infringement is intended.

**With Love**

My dear Edith—

I'm sitting here at my desk, tapping my pen against the page and wondering how I can possibly put all of my heart on a few thin sheets of paper. A part of me is desperate to talk to Mama and wishes that she were with us today. There is so much I want to ask and understand, for it does not seem possible that these perfect feelings are natural. I often wonder if she was this happy in the days following her wedding to Papa. Is it right to be so happy, so content, so deliciously lost in another person's smile that one forgets the world outside? I wonder if my father would have counted such selfishness as a sin, but I cannot say that I am fully self-centered; after all, my thoughts are centered on my dear husband.

Husband! Oh, Edith, how strange to utter such a word. I look at the few sentences on this page and think of the days when we were simple girls with dolls and miniature tea sets. How could we ever have imagined that one day we would be wives and mothers (or at least you are a mother, though I assure you that I shall keep no secrets from you when I do become blessed with a little family of my own)? It seems wrong, in a way, to be so delighted. I look in Mr. Thornton's eyes and see sunshine where I had once imagined clouds. I am embarrassed to remember my chilly behavior towards him, but I suppose time is made if only so it might pass and cover up the wounds we strike upon one another.

It is admittedly difficult to write of my husband in this way when I know you and Aunt Shaw still imagine that he has frost and gloom about his person, but I can promise you quite surely that there is warmth and fire within him. I only hope that you will someday experience the same joyous surprise that I did as you discover his goodness.

The weather is warm in Milton, though perhaps not as warm as it is within the house at times. I fear my mother in law and I have discovered a unique talent in being able to upset one another at all hours of the day. At times I wonder if she missed an important career as a barrister, for rarely does a day pass when she does not make an argument about this or that regarding my behavior. I am patient for Mr. Thornton's sake, though I admit that I often match her blow for blow when I ought to keep my tongue. I'll offer an example. I'd asked Dixon to refresh all of the bedsheets on Wednesday morning, for that was when the chore had always been performed in my house as a girl and in Crampton, but Mrs. Thornton came upon me in such a fury and insisted that the linens are to be washed, pressed, and replaced on Friday mornings. We went through a curious row, arguing in favor of our own perspectives; it seemed to last for hours, though I imagine it only spanned a handful of minutes.

We finally decided upon a compromise, and I instructed Dixon to carry out the chore on Thursdays after breakfast. Still, Edith, I must confess my surprise that Mrs. Thornton did not demand that it be done at the stroke of midnight, directly between our desired times, for she seemed so reluctant to forfeit any of her ground!

I do not mean to sound upset, and reviewing these lines makes me worry that I am painting a grim picture of my life in Milton. It is quite the opposite, I assure you. My mother in law is insisting, to be certain, but she is also helpful in teaching me what it means to run a house like ours on Marlborough Street. She joins us for our meals, but often she will retire to the study with her needlepoint so Mr. Thornton and I might take tea together at the end of his workday.

I apologize for my fumbled handwriting in the previous paragraph. My husband swept upon me and startled me with one of his tender caresses. Oh, Edith, you did a bad thing in not warning me of the sweet overtures of married life! To think I looked on you as a sister and still you kept such a delicious secret! I laugh to see these lines on the page, just as I'm smiling to imagine your shock in hearing your cousin speak in such a bawdy way, but again I feel my heart is sailing above the clouds with joy. He is so good and attentive. There are moments when I worry my heart might leap from my breast in loving him, but I know I can feel safe beside him.

In reply to your letter, which rests now beside me next to a warm cup of tea, I confess that I have not thought of what to buy my darling nephew for his birthday. I imagine that I would struggle to wrap up the whole world in a box with blue ribbon to match (for that is what I wish to give him—the world and all its treasures!), so I believe I shall need some suggestions from his doting mother. One of my husband's colleagues has a son who is still fascinated by the wooden "yo-yo" that he received at Christmastime. Little Simon tells me that it is endlessly entertaining, though I admittedly failed in my pitiful attempt to get the little top to crawl along its string. Still, the boy told me that he learned quickly. I recently purchased a few of them for the poor Boucher children in Princeton, but I imagine such a gift would still delight your wee boy. Please reply as to whether or not the gift might be fitting.

Your note mentioned a concern about my health in Milton, but again, cousin, I remind you that all is well under the smoky sun in Darkshire. Look at Mrs. Thornton! She is as healthy as one could hope to be at her age, and she seldom leaves the embrace of Milton society. I assure you that there is wood for our fire, food on our stove, and sunlight on our faces. I shall not suffer here, whatever Aunt Shaw might argue!

I stepped away from my desk for a moment, and it seems that I neglected my letter in the haste of afternoon tea and the little chores I must oversee around the house. I'm writing to you now from the warmth of the study. John--I hesitated and thought to cross out his Christian name, but "Mr. Thornton" seems so strange when used amongst family; forgive my informality, but there it shall stand—John has gone to meet with one of the cotton suppliers who will help us in reconnecting with our former customers. The mill is back in operation, and I confess that it is music to my ears to hear the slow groan of the machines and the boisterous laughter of the workers as they move through the courtyard beyond the windows at suppertime.

I love this room. I wish I could show you the nooks and crannies of this little house someday, Edith, for it is quite marvelous. John claimed most of my father's books when they were auctioned after his funeral, and it makes my heart sing to see those familiar titles mingled on an overcrowded shelf once again. In truth, I spend many evenings in this little room. The sofa is plush and perfect for reading, and the fire is seldom snuffed out from lack of care. I'll often wander into a nap when I am reclining on the sofa, but twice I have been woken by a gentle kiss that makes me blush in remembrance.

All is well here at Marlborough Mills, Edith. Do come visit us soon, and promise to send word of my aunt's health. I trust that her cold is improving and that God has smiled upon you all.

With love,

Margaret Thornton


End file.
